The Secret Sickness of Scott Barringer
by those saboteurs
Summary: Beneath the layers of makeup and lies and perfume she really was hideous, he knew that, even if no one else did. Scott muses during a scene in "Close Encounters." One-shot. Enjoy.


Disclaimer: Higher Ground is not mine, etc. etc...

NOTE: This takes place during the episode, "Close Encounters," when Scott is having dinner with his father and Elaine at Rusty's.

The Secret Sickness of Scott Barringer

HE KNEW THAT he could just so easily say that she was ugly, hideous even, because it would make things so much less difficult, and he wouldn't have to go through this whole process of self-depreciative destruction and confusion. Well, beneath the layers of makeup and lies and perfume (_sweet sweet sickly disgusting perfume_) she really was hideous, _he _knew that, even if no one else did. God probably knew, because he was always told as a child that God knows all of the secrets that you never tell anyone; God can see your soul. God would probably be repulsed at the sight of _her_ soul.

But the truth that he couldn't deny is that she _is_ wretched, sick, twisted, and…beautiful in the worst way possible. It was hard for him to think it, but he had to admit that he would have found her attractive had she not been such a grotesque person—and he did, at first. Back when he still had a shred of innocence and dignity. Even as they sat in the crowded, slightly unattractive family-oriented diner, she still had that sense of sinister seduction.

It didn't sound right in his mind, to call her beautiful. Not after everything she had done to him.

Then again, he was always told as a child that God forgives everyone, even the worst people in the world, and so he should, too.

He was repulsed at the thought.

Either way, at the moment, he was slumped in his seat, trying to appear nonchalant and tough and as if the sick sideways-glances she had been throwing in his direction for the past twenty minutes were nothing, which wasn't true. He wiped the sweat from his palms on his pant legs. The back of his shirt was stuck to his skin with perspiration. His heart began to pound and all of the thoughts he'd been able to repress for the past few weeks came rushing back with an almost overwhelming intensity; infinitely worse than the last time. Every time she caught his eye, he looked away.

A muffled but shrill robotic ring interrupted her visual abuse, and his father looked bashful. "I told them, no calls," he sighed, digging into his pocket for the offending cell phone. With a final glance of what could be mistaken as genuine regret, he stood up and stalked off to a more secluded part of the diner.

Without anyone to hinder her any longer, she resumed her eye fondling.

(everyone can see everyone can see what she's doing to me someone's gonna notice and someone's gonna stop her once and for all someone's gonna see how sick she is and they're gonna lock her up and someone is going to save me)

The unrelenting heat of her eyes on his body was insufferable—nauseating—

"I'm gonna tell him. I'm gonna tell him everything you did to me." He shivered at the quality of his own voice; threatening, forceful…dangerous. He was so close. Tense--enough to snap, but maybe he already had.

She made a noise that could be mistaken for laughter; high, girlish laughter, and their eyes met.

(that's ridiculous) her expression said, and he despite his rage he came so close to believing her. _(ridiculous so ridiculous)_

"Scotty, your daddy loves me," she continued, in the same sickly sweet, flippant manner. "He'll never believe you."

He wanted to slam his fist onto the tabletop, scattering the plates and dinner items. He wanted to stand up and shout, "Yes, he will!" at her, interrupting everyone's meal. Make a scene. He wanted her to know, to _feel_ how much he hated her at the moment. But he didn't; instead he averted his eyes to the metal fork lying near his right hand, imagining how much he would enjoy plunging it through her eye socket--the only way to keep the oppressing doubt from overtaking his thoughts.

Thump-thump-thump. Footsteps, muffled slightly on the rug-swathed floor—his father had come back. "Sorry—daily crisis," Martin apologized, as if those words could make up for all the moments he'd missed because of his work. They sounded so grossly inadequate. Sliding into the seat, there was only a split second before Elaine had her arms around him, and Scott imagined for a moment that her arms were snakes; writhing and coiling themselves around everything, stifling the life out of anything that lived…

"Oh, honey, you work too hard," She cooed, stroking his hair. "This is time to spend with Scotty."

He wanted to vomit.

"You're right," his father conceded, grinning, and it made him look like a fool. "I want to hear everything."

(yeah right)  
(everything)  
(if only you knew if only you knew if only you knew)

Later that night he would make up some excuse that he was tired, that he wanted to go back to Horizon and as he brushed past Elaine on his way out, her fingers groped disgustingly at his backside. His father had gone ahead to warm up the car. No one noticed.

The whole ride back, there was a silence that was like a black hole: he wanted to say so many things, but the words were just sucked right out of his mouth before he could stop it. And it wasn't one of those awkward silences, where you didn't know what to say or how to say it; he knew _exactly_ what he wanted the words to be—and boy, did he have words for her—they just never had the chance to be uttered.

Peter and Sophie were waiting on the porch of the lodge when he pulled up, and he was grateful _(oh so grateful)_ and he was out of the car before it had grinded to a full stop; Peter looked for a brief second as if he were going ask how it was, but a seething, _don't ask_, look on the part of Scott made him stop.

"Scott?" his father asked, tentative because he could tell that something wasn't right.

He turned to face his father, but for some reason he couldn't meet his eyes.

"Sorry, dad," came the stifled reply. "I'm just…tired, I guess. But I'll see you tomorrow, right?" He offered him his best grin that said, I'm alright, I'm alright.

The worried parent stared at him for a moment, and then said, "Okay." He allowed himself to be pulled into a hug, but couldn't bring himself to hug his father back; he remained stiff and rigid in his embrace. "I'll see you tomorrow, then."

Scott nodded and waved goodbye to him, but all he could think was, _no, I won't be seeing you tomorrow. I hope to God not._

_**end.**_

Yeah, I know. Kind of pointless and random, yeah?


End file.
